Years
by ignitesthestars
Summary: A look at Minerva McGonagall's life in relation to that one spell she's always wanted to perform; from the time she first sees the statues of Hogwarts, to the time she finally brings them to life.


The year is 1937, and Minerva Mcgonagall has just stepped foot into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

And honestly, as great as it is in there, as excited as she's been for the past eleven years to get there, she'd really rather step back outside and stare at those statues some more. Because they are, quite frankly, awe-inspiring, and somewhere in the back of Minerva McGonagall's mind an idea sparks.

What if she could make them move?

* * *

><p>It's her second year, and while she's mastered animate to inanimate transfiguration (faster than anyone else), Albus Dumbledore tells her that perhaps her energy would be better spent on learning patience before she tries her hand at inanimate to animate. She grumbles under her breath when she thinks he can't hear about just what, exactly, he can do with his patience; he pretends not to notice and she pretends to listen, but no one is really surprised when she turns a pinecone into a duck before he even tells them the incantation.<p>

There's a young boy, newly sorted into Slytherin. Minerva doesn't know his name, wouldn't recognise him in the halls, and has no idea that one day he will make her dream come true in the worst possible way.

* * *

><p>She's in Sixth Year when the Chamber of Secrets is opened. It's hideous, of course, all these Muggleborns being petrified, but at the same time…<p>

_Well._ Wouldn't it be something, if she could cast the spell (she knows it, now, chants it internally during particularly troublesome Prefects meetings), order the statues to do their duty to protect Hogwarts, and so bring the – the _thing_ to justice?

Of course, then a girl dies and if Minerva could have kicked herself in the face she would have – with an attitude like that, she'd practically been asking for it, hadn't she? She divides her time between comforting the younger students, holding whispered, worried meetings with the older ones, and occasionally venturing out to gaze up at those majestic creations. They bring her comfort, after five and a half years worth of staring – that is, until cold reality sets in, and she's reminded that the school will likely be closed within weeks, if not days. The grey stone suddenly becomes bleakly appropriate.

(Rubeus Hagrid is expelled as the culprit not a week later – a young boy, a bit _stupid_ perhaps, but never a killer! Tom Riddle is proclaimed to be a hero as she argues hotly with Professor Dumbledore, running alongside him as he strides down the corridors. It's only after he gives the password to the gargoyle that she realises he'd been agreeing with each of her arguments, and they share a sad smile a month later as Hagrid tags along after the groundskeeper, pink umbrella at his side.)

* * *

><p>The year after she leaves Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore defeats Gellert Grindelwald in a battle of truly epic proportions. She'd always known her Transfiguration professor was a powerful wizard, of course (everybody did), but it doesn't really hit home until the newspapers are hitting <em>everybody's<em> home.

For all of her sensibility, Minerva McGonagall is a Gryffindor to the bone; she can't deny that she would have loved to be there, fighting on the side of justice, to defend the things she believed in. It was not to be, however, so the statues keep their silent (still) vigil over Hogwarts school, and Minerva contents herself with the position a recommendation from _the_ Albus Dumbledore can get her at the Ministry.

It's strange; for all that it's been years since she even set sight on the school, returning to Hogwarts still feels like coming home. She spares a small twitch of the lips for her old friends standing watch – it's not a jaded Minerva McGonagall who returns to teach, but perhaps one with a little more life experience, a little less naïve optimism – before continuing quickly on her way up the steps. Albus (can she call him Albus now? He insists, but it still feels so very odd) greets her with that famous twinkle in his eye, and offers to show her around the school.

Minerva replies that she remembers the way well enough, thank you very much, and spends her first day back wandering around the grounds, allowing the familiarity of Hogwarts to wash over her. It would be easy to do it now, of course, with the students not due for another month yet and the rest of the staff going about their own business, but…

It would be a frivolous bit of magic, serving no purpose. She spares a final glance for those ancient statues before flickering into the form of a cat. It wouldn't do to get out of practice, after all.

* * *

><p>She could count the years until she hears the name 'Lord Voldemort', but the more that pass, the less she finds she's inclined to. At first, she's not sure why it should have any meaning to her; it's not until one weary senior staff meeting that Albus informs them that the self-styled Dark Lord is the once-hero Tom Riddle that she understands the significance.<p>

It's a certified genius they're dealing with, then, and one who is very, very good at bringing others to his cause. But no matter how charming and charismatic this Lord Voldemort is, they have Albus Dumbledore. A trump card that one could almost call overkill, really. Besides, Minerva McGonagall is no slouch herself, and others will fight for their cause.

And if they don't, well. It's not like she doesn't know where to find more soldiers.

* * *

><p>Eleven years pass, and James and Lily potter are dead.<p>

There's not much more she can do, or say, or think, in response to that.

* * *

><p>The year is 1991, and Harry Potter has just stepped foot into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.<p>

She treats him as any other child, because that is what he deserves to be. A child, not some spectacle to be paraded around, treated as a thing or a name or more than human. She watches him grow up over the years, watches as the future darkens and his options narrow; will she nil she, the boy becomes a figurehead, and she can't help but judge Albus Dumbledore a little for that.

If she cannot help him be ordinary, however, she will help him become extraordinary. She swears as much to Dolores Umbridge in '95; another child with hopefully rumpled black hair, another child with bright green eyes, another child who inspires loyalty as easy as breathing. She will not fail this one.

And so it is that two years later, in the calm before the storm that is about to unleash all Hell on her school, she stands outside the castle and is prepared to lay down her life. But she does not stand alone.

The words spring unbidden to her mouth, spilling from her lips without a second thought as her wand sweeps in movements long since ingrained in her muscle memory. There is a shudder of stone overhead, a clang of metal as her old friends, her massive warriors drop to the ground and despite the situation she feels a wide, giddy smile break across her face.

"I've always wanted to do that," she informs Molly Weasley, a tad breathless. Judging by the expression on the other woman's face, Molly Weasley is somewhat less than comforted by her tone.

* * *

><p><em>What if she made them move?<em>

Sixty years on from that first question, Minerva McGonagall is finally granted her answer. Seeing her statues fighting, saving lives, defending her school until they can no longer stand or crawl or roll, she feels it is more than satisfactory.


End file.
